“Emi Vega called me a liar,” I say, trying to keep my voice from sounding strained.

Ryan’s expression remains controlled. He concentrates on my foot and the giant shard of glass he just pulled out.

“She told the whole world I know something about the Death Mob.”

He glances up at me before depositing the glass on a paper towel next to him. It’s thin but longer than I expected—an inch at least—and smeared with blood.

Ryan picks up a wet washcloth—from our linen closet—and presses it against the cut. After a few seconds, he pulls it back and examines my foot. I’m acutely aware of his fingers wrapped around my heel and ankle. His hand is still cold, but every nerve ending in my foot ignites where he touches me. I adjust myself, trying to sit taller as he begins dabbing the wound.

“I’m not saying my lie was good, but . . .”

Ryan stares at me with an intensity that clamps my mouth shut. His dark brow furrows, and his grip on my heel tightens. I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve made a mistake by sharing.

It feels like forever before he looks away. He tosses the washcloth aside and picks up a bandage. “It’s deep,” he says, applying the adhesive sides. “Probably could use stitches.”

“I’m not about to spend another minute in the ER.”

His eyes flicker back to my face. That intensity again. I press my back into the couch and pull my foot away.

“There has to be a reason,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.

“For what?” It takes me longer than it should to realize what he’s talking about.

“Vega liked your dad.”

The way he says it, like he knew my dad, like he knew things about him that I didn’t know, angers me.

“Emi Vega wants a national spotlight,” I say, like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world. “She’s unethical. She’d do anything to boost her fame.” Including sell me out to a band of savage teens that probably wants me dead.

Ryan grabs the glass, the bandage wrapper, and the washcloth and heads toward the kitchen.

I get stuck on the washcloth. If he went through our linen closet, he definitely passed my room. I turn my entire body toward him, staring him down. “How did you know my dad again?”

Ryan throws the trash away beneath our kitchen sink. “I told you.”

“You’re the one who told me not to trust anyone.”

“I got in trouble. He helped me out,” Ryan says, heading toward the pantry. When he comes back with a broom and dustpan, it hits me. He’s too comfortable in my house.

I jump up, forgetting about my foot until I’ve already put weight on it and it’s burning. “How do you know where everything is?”